TCOT Great Lie
by ConsueloCroyden
Summary: Has Della gotten in a bit over her head when trying to help Paul? Background of the story is in TCOT Crooked Candle. Della POV, and more bookverse than showverse.
1. Setting The Stage

It was something that she rarely, if ever, did, but crossing off each passing day on the calendar only seemed appropriate at the present. She'd been doing it for four days now, sitting and staring at the big red X each time, calculating how much time was left until his return. She felt completely foolish about it, like a schoolgirl with a crush. The first day, it was all in fun, something to make her laugh at anything, even if it had to be herself. The next three, it was something of a "why not?" scenario, in which she justified her actions by needing something to properly end the day. Today, it was an excuse to look at the calendar, to let the excitement begin to take hold, for at the bottom of the next day's notes was a little reminder. "Flight returns, 8:15 PM."

She glanced at her watch, thinking, "Twenty-six hours," to herself, with a smile. She could stand it that long. Now she could start planning how she'd greet him at the airport. A kiss wouldn't seem strange to anyone passing, on their way to their own destinations.

She folded her arms over her desk, sliding forward until her chin rested down. It would be too much for anyone who knew who they were. Gossip columns would have a field day with it. They went crazy enough, as it was, whenever pictures were taken of them glancing at each other, standing a certain way.

Self-titled experts would be consulted, and they would explain why his hand at her elbow meant they were intimate with one another. She could see it all now. A seemingly innocent little old lady sells her story, her eye-witness account of the kiss that sealed the deal for the public. The title would be some alliterated catch. "Famed Attorney Caught Canoodling In Concourse."

Their relationship was nothing to be ashamed of, in reality. She began working for him, they fell for each other, and that was that. Still, the public held on to the notion that when a boss and his secretary are more than just that, there is an illicit back story involved. The man left his wife for the alluring lady who answered his phone calls just right. His children starved while the coy lady of the office fought a bitter war against the lady of the house. Of course, it was nothing of the sort for them. Neither of them had ever been married. No children would starve if they hopped a flight to Reno for a quick wedding. The papers would still dig deep to try to find some scandal. She imagined the public would know more about her than her closest friends did. Everything from the fact that she had a gap between her front teeth fixed ten years ago to what she had for lunch last Thursday would be fodder for the "experts" to examine. She could only imagine what they'd dig up on him. Maybe they'd contact Laura, to see if there was a connection between her sudden departure, and the prowling secretary's appearance. She sat up and laughed at the notion of Laura ever being considered a victim. The woman's sole purpose in life was to advance her own career at the expense of others.

Her thoughts were forced to a halt when she heard the familiar knock on the door to his office's private entrance. She scooted away from her desk and quickly went in to hear what was possibly her favorite phrase- only she wished it'd come out of another man's mouth.

"Hello, beautiful!" Paul grinned, as he breezed through the door. "I had a feeling you'd still be here."

"And it's a good thing, too. You might have been accused of breaking and entering."

"Never," he laughed. "I've got too much dirt on Perry for him to press charges."

He lit a cigarette and slid down into his usual chair, casually swinging his leg up over the arm. Relaxed as he was, there was something that didn't seem right. He could usually go days without sleep and still appear fresh and alert. Now, he sat before her, looking a rumpled mess. His eyes had a sort of lost look, as though he was in some distant place, in his mind, on someone's trail. He was without a jacket, exposing his wrinkled shirt and rolled-up shirt sleeves.

"Paul," she began, hesitantly, as she pulled a chair up, opposite him. "Is there... is something wrong?"

"Nah," he shrugged, bringing his attention back to her. "Nothing I can't handle."

"I don't believe you," she smiled, crossing her arms. "Look at yourself."

He raised his arms, one by one, then glanced down at his shirt, "A man's got to work, Della."

"Yes, but you're not a bus boy, Paul. Add a little cap to that get up, and I'd ask you to bring me some more coffee cups."

"I hereby retract my greeting and replace it with, 'I liked your hair better when it was longer.'"

"Oh, don't be so moody. Just tell me. God knows we have no secrets around here."

He raised an eyebrow, and she laughed at her statement. "Alright, from the public, yes, but from each other, no."

He leaned forward, motioning for her to pass him an ashtray. As soon as he had extinguished it, he lit another, exhaling slowly as he sat back. "Rita."

It would figure, with Paul. Dodging bullets, he could handle. Being charged with a murder he didn't commit, he could handle. A woman he'd fallen like a ton of bricks for, the first woman she thought Paul might give up his flirtatious ways for? There was no hope. He sometimes referred to her as "Blonde Della." Rita had, at first, been confused by it, until she called to have lunch with Della to ask her what it meant. Personality wise, they were very opposite. Where Rita exuded femininity, Della was far more adventurous. But Paul had asked her to marry him, once, and she said she wouldn't do that to him. She wouldn't jeopardize his job and try to ask things of him that he couldn't do. Della had to explain that she shared the same sort of relationship with Perry. Only it was the general public that Della had to worry about. She didn't want Perry's reputation to be hurt by any silly gossip. That day at lunch, Della got the feeling that there was more to Rita's reasons than not wanting to change Paul. It was when Rita said, "Who knows what I might have been in New York," that Della suspected Rita knew more about her past than she let on. She'd appeared about a year ago as Rita Bradford, quickly reverting to Rita Wasselle when she found that her husband had divorced her, upon her disappearance. She claimed to have no memory of nearly two years of her life, and employed Paul to find out for her. He never got anywhere with it, but kept his promise of brightening her future.

"What about her?" she asked, hoping she wouldn't be solicited for relationship advice. The most awkward moments of her life could all be pinned down to conversations about relationships.

"She's gone again."

"What do you mean, gone?" It was a stupid question, she thought, once it had escaped her lips, but at the very least it might coax him into telling her more.

"Disappeared. No one knows where she went. I've checked everything. If there's a passenger list involved, I've checked it. I talked to her apartment building superintendent, and she hasn't seen her in days. She's vanished."

"When was she last seen?"

"Well, she'd been working at the bank, and a couple days ago, she just never returned from her lunch. One of the girls she'd gotten pretty friendly with called me. Rita said she was going to the restaurant about a block away for some coffee. According to the people there, they've never seen her. A Brinks truck driver saw her leave the building and head west, in his side mirror. And that's where it cuts off."

"But she seemed to be getting along so well, Paul. Didn't the doctor she saw say that her missing time could have been put in motion by the sudden jolt of facing a divorce? Just the shock of it all?"

"That's exactly what he said. And you're absolutely right- nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I just saw her this past Saturday and everything was normal. And Tuesday she's up and gone again. Thursday, still no sign of her."

"I wish you would have told me this sooner," she said quietly, reaching for the cigarette box on Perry's desk. She didn't smoke often, but when she was nervous, it was all she wanted to do. Rita wanted to keep their conversation private. She didn't want Paul to think she was angry with him. But perhaps the privacy was because she knew the wheels in Della's mind were turning. "A while back, right after you began that 'Blonde Della' thing-"

"It was only a joke," he countered, unnecessarily defending himself.

"I know it was... but we had lunch together. She said something that, well, she wanted the conversation to stay between us. But she said, 'Who knows what I might have been in New York?' It wasn't so much the statement, as it was the way she said it. I got the impression that she knew something, or had remembered something. And when she asked to keep it private... well, maybe she thought you'd find out."

"But find out what? No names to go on, no leads."

"Maybe she didn't want you to pressure her into giving some clue. Maybe someone had found her, threatened her. I know it's been months ago, but do you think-"

"She might be in real trouble," he sighed, pressing his fingertips to his forehead.

"We need to get into her apartment. There might be something there, some clue as to-"

"Wait a minute," he interrupted, turning in his seat. "What's this 'we' stuff?"

"I want to help, Paul. She's a friend of mine, and I know how much she means to you."

"Ohhh no. Perry would have my head on a platter if anything happened to you while he was gone."

"Perry has me committing more crimes in the name of justice than you can shake a stick at! It won't be any different than any other time. Everything will be just fine."

They silently finished their cigarettes as she waited for a response. It would be ridiculous of him to say no. He was obviously hurting for information, and she was the only one to give him anything, so far. She was at just the right position to be able to think clearly. Not blinded by love, or disappointment that she might have caused Rita's disappearance. She saw a little of that, in Paul. That demeanor wasn't just frustration in a case. It was closer to being depressed that he could have driven this woman away.

"Alright," he finally relented, "but if anything happens-"

"Nothing will happen!" she protested.

"Just be careful."

"I'm always careful. Now, what's her address?" she asked, getting up to grab a notepad.

"That's where we run into problems. I asked Miss Houghton if I could see her apartment. She was very adamant about not letting anyone in. Seems there was a problem a few years back, and she almost got herself into a lot of trouble by letting in someone she thought was a friend of a tenant. They were talking about accessory to murder charges."

"Sounds like a dandy place," she remarked, dryly.

"Well, believe me, if I had known anything about that, Rita would not have been living there."

"Is there anything she would have had... anything that could prove that I belong there?"

"Short of a set of keys, which I'm sure are in the purse that went missing right along with her, I'm not sure what might convince Miss Houghton."

"Didn't she keep a notebook... not really a diary, but a reminder notebook?"

"Probably in the purse, too."

"Don't be so quick to assume, Paul! It's isn't like you at all."

"I'll see about checking her desk at the bank in the morning. If I find anything, I'll give you a call."

He stood and brushed a few stray ashes from his shirt. As he reached for the door, she stopped him.

"Go home and change, Paul. No one's going to tell you anything if you look like you just crawled out of a gutter," she laughed.

"Good night," he replied, rolling his eyes.


	2. Loaded Words

Della sat in her car, parked along the eerily quiet street. It wasn't a run down neighborhood, by any means, but it appeared that it met its peak some time in the 30's, and now was occupied by people the building's designers didn't quite envision in these apartments. The style was definitely art deco, each building looking like the next, but without the drab suburbian touch of identical starter homes. The facades were beautifully designed, and it seemed a game to try to find a difference in each, outside what appeared to be duplicity. The door of the building in the middle of the block, Rita's building, had an arched window that peaked just higher than the windows in the rest. This was the focal point, she decided. The symmetry could then be seen. 

Though she hated to draw the parallel, she found it completely fitting of Rita, knowing what little she did now, but still harboring her suspicions. A life beautifully crafted, so that the casual passerby wouldn't find anything abnormal. But there was that one difference, that one tiny tip-off that she was, in fact, hiding among the masses, among the sameness of the every day life.

A chill ran up her spine at the thought. What had she signed herself up for? It could be as simple as Rita having had a run in with the police in New York. She might have been arrested for something. Della tried to come up with something minuscule that one could be arrested for. Public drunkenness? Della had a friend in business school who had overestimated her tolerance for alcohol, and later arrested for running nearly nude on a beach. The girl had no recollection when teased about it, but it was certain that she never heard the end of it. She was a celebrity, of sorts, for one little mistake. Maybe Rita was being too hard on herself, in fear of the same type of celebrity status. Could Paul have been more on the spot with his comparison between Rita and her, than she previously thought? Rita didn't want her past dug up, spreading the simple mistakes, smearing the reputation of one of the best private detectives in the state?

The headlights of Paul's car nearly blinded her, shining back in her face from the side mirror. Moving her hand to open the car door, she glanced down to find it shaking just slightly. It wasn't shaking enough for her to feel the movement, but it was visibly noticeable. As she got out of the car, she made a point to cross her arms, in an attempt to mask her nerves. If Paul thought she had any doubts, any reservations, he wouldn't let her take the chance on getting in there. She could only hope that Miss Houghton wouldn't see through her. That was her biggest problem, at present. She was putting too much stock in her fears. She wasn't just telling herself to be cautious, the bad feelings were manifesting into the need to call it all off.

"You look nervous," Paul observed as he approached her.

She rolled her eyes and let her arms drop to her sides, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're the one that said we hold no secrets," he smiled, half-heartedly. "Honestly, Della, you don't have to do this. I can put a man on the place, see if anyone's going in and out-"

"You hadn't already?" she said, her voice raised more than she had intended. "I'm sorry," she continued, immediately, "I'm just a little jumpy."

"If you're having second thoughts, it's alright."

"No," she insisted, "Everything is fine. Now let's just get this done with so I can pick Perry up at the airport. He sounded almost giddy on the phone, earlier, and I'm certainly not going to be the one guilty of breaking a good mood."

"Hurrying this up won't make that plane fly any faster," he said, quickly looking her up and down.

Her hand clenched around her bag, and the back step he took seemed to signal that he knew he'd gone over the line. He flinched, slightly, when she raised her hand, and stepped back again when she began wagging her finger at him. "Paul Drake, any more of that, and you're going to be having my shoe surgically removed from somewhere you never thought shoes could go!"

He stepped back again and reached into his car, grabbing a notebook from the dashboard. "Here. It's got everything from when to take vitamins to when to water the plants. Don't know how much luck you'll have, but anything's worth a try."

She took it from him, still shooting him an icy glare. "Thank you. I was beginning to wonder if we'd just stand here enjoying this witty banter all night."

Turning on her heel, she marched across the street, stopping at the foot of the stairs to flip through the notebook. What he'd said was contained within had given her an idea, and she hoped she'd find what she wanted on a page dated recently.

"Where's that shoe going to be, again?" Paul yelled, displaying a toothy grin that she wished she could smack from across the street.

"Amateur," she muttered to herself, pushing open the huge front door.

She stopped at the line of mailboxes on the wall, scanning the names on the front of each. "Apartment 1-C," she whispered, then looked up for Rita's mailbox, re-checking to make sure she had the right number. 3-B, it was.

With the notebook opened to the page held tightly in her hand, she took a deep breath before she went any further. She knew she'd have to appear calm in front of this woman. She'd have to be completely believable, award winning in her performance, by the way Paul described her. The hallway was a little dark, which seemed to both add to her nerves and take them at the same time. On one hand, it cast a bit of a spooky nature to the building, but on the other, it comforted her to know that it'd be harder for Miss Houghton to see her.

She paused for a few moments, before ringing the bell, going over her introduction. Once she thought she could do this perfectly, she pressed her finger down on the cracked buzzer, which pinched her finger, sending her back, startled. For a split second, she had truly believed she was being electrocuted. As she caught her breath, she smiled at herself. This was her state, right now. She even thought the building was rigged.

The door opened just a crack, revealing a short woman of about 50, her graying hair frazzled in the front, pulled back in what Della guessed might have been a bun. She couldn't yet see, and the chain crossing in front of Miss Houghton's face didn't make her feel any more confident that she'd be let in the apartment upstairs.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" the small, high pitched voice asked. It was nothing how Della had imagined she would sound, and the confusion made her hesitate. "Well?"

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she began, putting on her brightest smile, "But I'm supposed to be watching my friend's apartment while she's out of town, and-"

"No one gets into these apartments without a key," she interrupted, slamming the door in Della's face.

Finding a source of courage buried deep within her, Della moved closer to the door, her face just inches away as she pleaded. "But you don't understand, Miss Houghton! Rita told me you'd react just this way, and-"

The door opened again, the chain still hooked across. Della felt like a scientific specimen as the woman stared at her face, as if to read into her thoughts. She looked as though she made a practice of this, of trying to sum people up. That was her downfall, Della thought. One could feel as though she was making judgments. They could then try another facial expression, which she just might find more merit in. "Some man came around looking for her the other day. Told him the same thing."

"Oh, that was probably Paul," Della laughed, leaning comfortably against the door frame. "Poor Paul. Rita had to go out of town so quickly, she didn't even get a chance to tell him! I bet he was out of his mind with worry."

"Love sick," she said, in as near a grumble as Della guessed she muster. "Nothing ever got solved in this world with jealousy."

"Jealousy?" Della questioned. This could definitely get her somewhere, even if it wasn't inside the apartment.

"That man she's had over a couple of times. Got the idea the first time I saw him that she didn't want to see him, but I'll be damned if they weren't up there for a solid three hours."

"You must keep a very close eye on your tenants, Miss Houghton. I'm sure Rita appreciates it in you. But you can't be so quick to jump to conclusions, you know. Rita's had a very tough go of it for the past few years. Did you know that she spent almost two years in New York, and she can't remember a thing of it?"

"No fooling?" she said, her eyes widened with amazement. The whole story really did seem right out of a soap opera, the more Della told it, and by her reaction, she knew she had her hook.

"Not a single thing. In fact, she hired Paul to help her investigate."

"And that man... he was probably a friend of hers! Why, I'll bet she was so confused. Didn't know him from Adam until he explained."

"Precisely," Della smiled. She wished she could let out a sigh of relief as the chain was removed from the door. It still didn't guarantee entry to Rita's apartment, but at least she seemed to have gotten herself some trust. "And you know, it's the funniest thing. When Rita went out of town, Paul thought she'd disappeared again!"

"For Heaven's sake. Like one of those tearjerkers come to life, isn't it? All that confusion for nothing."

"Oh, Paul understands now. But back to the reason I came over... well, she left in such a hurry that she didn't have time to leave her key with anyone. And she's so concerned, just fretting over all the things she might not have shut off when she left-" she pulled out the notebook and showed Miss Houghton the page, "She'd even had 'water the plants' written down in her notebook at work. She wanted me to come by and check, and do some things like this for her."

Miss Houghton grabbed the notebook from Della and looked it over carefully. "Handwriting looks the same as it does on her checks..."

"She wanted me to bring that, so you might be more apt to let me in. You know, since I have something of hers. And I feel so badly because she lent me the most beautiful earrings, diamond studs with little pearl drops-"

"Oh, I've complimented her on those so many times!"

Della sent a silent thank you to the great beyond for this stroke of luck. She had vaguely remembered overhearing Gertie compliment them, and Rita mentioning that her landlady had said the very same thing that morning. "That's what she said! But wouldn't you know it, the pearl fell right off the right earring, and I'm having it fixed. That was the other thing she wanted me to bring. I thought it might look suspicious if I'd have gone to the jewelers and gotten back a broken earring to bring you."

"And you're very right! How would I know if you weren't a lady jewel thief, out to get the rest of her collection?"

"Could I really pass it off?" Della giggled, pulling her coat up to her neck, trying to act the part. "I saw a movie once, when I was a little girl, and I think Kay Francis was a jewel thief." She was playing this for all she was worth. It was taking what seemed like ages, but she wasn't going to give up. "I don't know," she sighed. "I think I lack the mystery."

"You never can tell! But I wouldn't suggest trying it to find out," she laughed. Della noticed her glancing at her watch, and hoped this was it. "Well... what was your name again?"

"Della Street," she replied, extending her hand, "I suppose I never introduced myself."

She took Della's hand and shook it as one might an old friend's. "Very nice to meet you, Miss Street. Now, if you'll excuse me, one of my shows is about to start and-" she paused as she pushed the door closed a bit, and Della could feel the life draining from her. She went through all that and now- "Here's the key. Just drop it back off when you've finished."

For a moment, Della couldn't quite grasp what to do with the sining metal object in front of her face. She felt like a mesmerized kitten, watching it dangle on the end of the other woman's finger. "Th- Thank you! Are you sure you don't want to just let me in? I can lock the door on my way out." The fear that was so instilled in her when she first set eyes on the place was creeping back over her. Now she was nearly desperate for another person to be along with her. "I'd really feel more comfortable that way."

"Well, I... I guess it wouldn't take but a minute." She pushed past Della into the hallway, her pace at a near run by the time they reached the stairs.

Della was completely out of breath by the time they reached the third floor, and was glad to stand and rest for a moment while Miss Houghton fumbled with getting the key in the lock. "These... the hallways are awfully dark in here."

"Mood lighting, they called it," she chuckled. "Why anyone needs to be getting in a mood in the hallway is beyond me! Public indecency!"

She pushed the door open, and at the pace which she took off, it seemed it was more of a push off to get to the finish line than it was a courtesy.

"Aren't you going in with me?" Della yelled to her as she continued to lean back on the wall outside the door. She heard a faint reply, but was unable to understand what she was saying. Moments later, the closing of Miss Houghton's door echoed upstairs, and Della forced herself to move inside the apartment.

Nothing seemed out of place, as she looked from wall to wall around the room. It looked like Rita had simply vanished, taking nothing with her. Of course, that was nothing new. A light was left on, sitting on a small desk. It was the only disorganized thing about the room. Everything else seemed so meticulously placed, but the desk was a mess of papers. She shoved the notebook into her purse as she went to the desk, then sat the purse down in the chair while she took her coat off. She paged through some bills, finding herself stacking them neatly as she put them back down. What she did find odd was that even the old bills were still there. They were marked at the bottom as paid, but still in this mess. She could understand if they were filed, but-

Someone had already been through this, she thought, as she fell into the chair. She opened the largest drawer, to find all the empty slots between the dividers. She wrestled away her instinct to get out of there, fast, and turned to look through the other smaller drawers on the other side. When she did, her knee struck the inside of the desk, sending something crashing down on her foot. She covered her mouth to keep from yelling in pain, and backed the chair away from the desk to see what had fallen- the whole back panel of the inside of the desk had come off, revealing three shelves, one with a tied stack of what appeared to be letters. She grabbed it quickly, and a card fell out. As she picked it up, she heard a noise from another room, which froze her on the spot. She stayed as silent as possible, listening for anything else, when she heard the creaking of a window opening. Her heart raced as she stood, shoving the card into her purse. She clutched the letters in her hand as she crept toward the door, but as she reached for the knob, the light switched on.

"Looks like two of us are searching out the same thing," the voice said, with a touch of a laugh. "You might want to hand those over."

"Who are you?" she asked as calmly as she could, trying to remain composed.

"I could ask the same thing, lady."

She hadn't realized he was so close until he'd spoken, and his hand on her shoulder startled her to try to turn around. What had been a careful touch became a shove as he forced her to stay against the door.

"But I think I know you already. Sure be hard to get rid of a lady like you."

"I think you've made some mistake, I-"

"You're the secretary, aren't you? Perry Mason's."

She couldn't find her voice to give an answer, but finally nodded when he pushed her harder against the door.

"Gwen's been saying lots of nice things about you and the lawyer and the P.I. How you'll find everything out. But I guess you call her Rita, don't you?"

She nodded again, only because she thought he might break her collar bone if he pushed her any harder. She heard footsteps outside, and when he jerked her arm up behind her back, forcing her away from the door, she knew he'd heard it, too. All she could hope was that it was Paul, and if this man did shoot her, help wouldn't be far away.

"Please," she pleaded, in a whisper, "just take what you want. You can have the letters."

"And go back on my word?"

She closed her eyes as he pressed a gun to her back, swallowed hard when she heard the door knob rattle, and felt she might just have a heart attack and end this all naturally when she heard Paul calling her name.

"Told her I'd kill any of you that got in my way."

He let go of her arm and grabbed the stack of letters. The gun was still at her back, and Paul was pounding on the door by now. Images of her mother and father, her brother, everyone who meant anything to her were flashing in her mind. The last one was an almost haunting vision. Cars were driving away to reveal one man, standing alone on the curb.

"I should have gone to the airport."

The pounding was more patterned now, further apart than before, but still there. She wondered when he would just shoot her, just get this over with. She suddenly recalled a very unsettling professor she'd once had, musing about the psychological reactions of people faced with terminal illnesses. The final was acceptance. It seemed so morbid at the time, so unnecessary to talk about. It was something she was immune to, then. She was young, had her whole life ahead of her- why both with talking about how to cope with a terminal diagnosis? And all the deaths she'd seen in her life had been quite sudden. Who had time for acceptance at the end of a gun?

She heard the splintering of wood, and it all became clear to her- he was going to kill both of them. She turned quickly to try to warn him, but before she could utter a word, she caught the faintest glimpse of a fist barreling toward her face.


	3. You And I Both

In the dimly lit bathroom of her small apartment, she carefully studied the growing welt just beneath her eye. No amount of cold compresses was going to hide this, keep it from getting darker almost by the minute. She hadn't gotten a good look at it in Paul's car as he sped away from Rita's building, mumbling over and over that Perry would have his head on a platter. She had been coming up with lies for him to feed Perry, anything to keep him from knowing, but it was no use now. By the looks of it, she'd have to tell him she was under quarantine for at least a week for him not to find out. And that would all hinge on if Paul cracked and told him everything.

Pressing the bag of ice back to her eye, she pulled the chain on the light before retreating to the living room. She knew that somewhere inside her currently nerve wracked body was the same logical and intelligent woman she'd always been. The person she was at the moment seemed someone out of a movie, grasping at straws for an outlandish scheme that would end with a complete return to normalcy. It never worked on the silver screen, so why was she doing this to herself? She was simply going to have to face him, looking like a champion prize fighter, and explain that she may have stuck her neck out just the tiniest bit too far.

What bothered her, most of all, was that she knew he would be outrageously angry with her, but if he were there, if he had been involved, he would have sent her. She didn't want to picture herself blubbering with apologies, but she knew she would. From the very beginning, he knew she loved the thrill of the mystery, chasing down every possible lead until it was solved, no matter what risks had to be taken just as much as he did. It was what really brought them together. If there was another girl out there more willing to do anything he asked, she'd like to meet her. Truthfully, she'd like to hide her from him, but that was not the point. Over and over again, they got themselves into jams that most normal people could never see their way out of. When he was with her, it was alright. When it was his idea, there was no admonishment. When she was in danger, by herself, there was bound to be a fight. He was supposed to know her, or at least trust her, by now, but things were working in retrograde. The more he professed his love for her, the less she got to be by his side in cases.

"_Some day, Miss Street, I'll marry you and take you away from all this."_

_The statement caught her off guard, causing her to drop the spoon she'd used to stir her coffee, disrupting the peace of the 24 hour diner in the small hours of the morning. She kept her eyes set on the swirling liquid inside the cup, afraid that he'd see the embarrassment on her face, if she looked up at him._

"_What was that?" she asked in nearly a whisper._

"_Judging by your reaction, I could have sworn you heard me the first time," he chuckled. "I'm sorry. You just looked like a girl who could use the words of a knight in shining armor right now."_

_Her head still down, she at least made herself glance up at him. He was smiling in a way she'd seen many times before, when he'd come up with a last minute, brilliant idea. She'd always taken it as a gesture of great satisfaction with himself. If his idea of satisfaction was rendering her to a state where she'd like to curl up and hide, he'd succeeded once more._

"_Why do you say that?"_

"_You looked a little lost over there. Sorry I couldn't come up with an actual knight for you."_

"_I don't need one, Perry. I've got-" she managed to catch herself before the "you" tumbled out. "Gotten used to it."_

"_No one would have thought you'd ever seen a dead body before, the way you screamed to holy hell back there."_

_She knew he was teasing her, with that smile still etched on his face. And in his own unique way, this was how he was trying to get her to smile, too. It was, strangely enough, nothing new for them. In the couple of years she'd worked with him, she couldn't count all the gruesome discoveries they'd made._

"_That was different, Perry. I don't make it a habit of literally stumbling across bodies."_

"_Even Tragg was surprised. We all thought you were going to pass out."_

"_But I didn't, so... there you have it, you're stuck with me," she said, becoming increasingly frustrated with his attempt at humor at her expense._

_Even more of a surprise, was when he reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it tightly. "And I couldn't be happier about that. It'd be a rough day for me if you weren't on my side. God knows I'd never have a chance in court if Burger had you as a secretary."_

"_Perry, that's ridiculous. If a client is innocent, he's innocent. Who I work for has no bearing on-"_

"_Della," he interrupted, holding his hand up. "Just let me give you a compliment, alright? Thank you for being the bravest woman in the world, and thank you for sticking with me, even when it gets a little..."_

"_Illegal?"_

"_I was trying to come up with a kinder word for it, but I suppose that will do."_

"_Tragg wasn't serious about the breaking and entering charge, was he?"_

"_The door was open, Della. We had reason to believe that the person we were there to see was in trouble. We did our civic duty, did what any red blooded American who had an ounce of care for his fellow man-"_

"_He wasn't a very nice man, Perry."_

"_The point is, that they'd have no case. We called the police immediately, didn't do anything to disrupt the scene-"_

"_Other than trip over the guy."_

"_It was dark," he said, smiling softly. "And that's the end of it. Our only concern now is that we are minus one client."_

_She sat back against the booth and took a sip of her coffee, quietly taking everything in. He still kept her hand in his, and she was more than happy about it. She wondered, often, if he knew how she truly felt about him. In a way, she didn't want him to know. She wanted to keep letting herself believe that moments like these meant as much to him as it did to her. If he rejected her, she'd be crushed._

"_Della," he began, suddenly breaking the silence, "do you... are you tired?"_

"_Not really," she answered hesitantly. "Why?"_

"_I don't think we're quite done with this case."_

"_You want to get to the bottom of it."_

"_Just as much as you do," he grinned._

With a firm knock at the door, the lovely memory darkened into the cold reality of the present. He was standing on the other side of the door, she knew it. As soon as she turned the knob, the judgment would begin. She willed herself to stand, wishing she could fast forward past all of this, take a blind leap into whatever was to come. She simply didn't have the energy left to explain herself to what would undoubtedly be deaf ears.

A louder knock set her feet into motion, and her mind swirled with reasons for her actions, the logical responses to why she did it. Her racing heartbeat echoed in her ears, and she felt a little as if she was outside herself, watching this unfold. Suddenly, the door was open and she had no recollection of turning the knob. His eyebrow was arched, and she immediately looked away. It had already begun, with that one-

"Look..." she heard herself saying, "you would have done the same thing, sent me there just like I chose to do." She balled her fists to keep her hands from shaking, but felt her knees weaken as she continued to speak, despite her better judgment. "Rita is my friend, our friend, and I will continue to do anything possible until we find her, no matter what you say. So... don't... don't try to stop me."

There was a long silence between them, as she studied the pattern of the carpet at his feet. Her face was hot, and it was no small effort for her to keep from breaking into tears. She waited for him to speak, to inevitably play that same old guilt trip on her, of keeping herself safe because he loved her.

"Is that all, Miss Street?" he asked, leaning on the side of the doorway.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And may I come in?"

She slowly stepped aside, letting him pass by. Keeping her eyes averted from him, she closed the door, soon joining him on the couch. The silence continued for some time longer, until he reached up for a cigarette from the box on her coffee table. He inhaled deeply, and she glanced up to see the smoke billowing into the air.

"Aren't you going to say anything, Perry?"

He leaned back on the couch, glancing over at her with his eyebrow raised once more. "I didn't think you wanted me to say anything."

"I certainly thought you, of all people, would give me an earful. I have a black eye, if you hadn't noticed."

"Is that what that is?" he smiled, leaning toward her and running his thumb across her cheek. "I hoped it wasn't a new make up style."

"Please be serious, Perry. This is your cue to tell me how I'm supposed to be more careful, supposed to be some sort of psychic and know exactly when things will turn sour."

She wished she didn't sound as bitter as she did, but she simply couldn't help it. These words had been stored up for too long, her feeling forced to the back burner while she pretended to go about life happily inside his glass cage for her.

"I can't do this anymore, Perry. You've known from the very beginning that I thrive on adventure just as much as you do. But from the moment you said you loved me, I've felt as though you've been pushing me out of that life."

"Hold on just a minute, Della. Why would you think that? What have I ever done to-"

"Do you really need a list? Look at how often we fight about this very subject. You tell me to be careful, I tell you I worry just as much about you and you tell me not to. So, why should you? Why can't things be like they used to, when we focused on clients instead of each other? We're fighting about ourselves when we should be helping Paul right now."

"This fight is awfully one sided, don't you think?"

Sighing heavily, she closed her eyes as she leaned forward, crossing her arms against her stomach. "I'm sorry. I'm... I don't know what's wrong with me, Perry. I've been acting like a lovesick schoolgirl the whole time you've been gone, and now you're here... and what do I do?"

"Della, you've been through quite an ordeal. It'd shake anyone up."

"I don't want to make excuses for myself," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I wish-"

He scooted closer to her, linking his arm with hers. She still couldn't quite understand it. He was being so calm, the exact opposite of how she had convinced herself he'd act, and she had still plowed ahead, making an absolute ass of herself.

"Can I say a few things?" he asked, his voice sounding a bit hesitant. She nodded her reply, watching him extinguish his cigarette in the ashtray before beginning. "When Paul told me what had happened tonight, I will admit that the first thing I wanted to do was ask you why in the world you would put yourself in that situation. So... Yes, I understand what you've been saying about that. Never, though, have I intentionally tried to push you out of the life I know you love. I worry about you, yes, but I'm human."

"That's just it, Perry. I am, too. We all are. And like I said before, I can't see into the future, no more than you or Paul can. I can also make decisions for myself, and learn from them if they turn out to be mistakes. I would have been safer with Paul with me, but at the time, I couldn't see a possibility of him actually getting in to that apartment alongside me. I try to be careful, you know that. So please just trust me when I say that I am still the same girl who walked into your office for a job. Things have changed between us, but nothing has changed about us. I simply want to be treated like I am still capable, still responsible, and still... Della."

"Will you, then, grant me the same trust when I say that I'm trying very hard to avoid the overprotective parent bit? I resisted my own urge to ask questions, to grill you on the why and the how this all happened. I had Paul drop me off at my apartment, first, because I knew that if I came straight here, that's exactly what I would do to you. I needed time to cool off, to want to get here with only one question on my mind."

She had to look away from him, to try to hide the shame that masked her face and threatened to force a flood of tears down her face. She bit her bottom lip, when he cupped his hand gently under her chin.

"I want you to look at me, Della," he said, turning her head. A concerned smile crossed his lips as he asked, "All I want to know is, are you alright?"

That was all it took for the flood gates to open, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly, nodding her head against his shoulder. He quietly comforted her, rubbing her back as she cried uncontrollably. It felt as if every pent up emotion was escaping her, and the more she tried to will herself to stop, the harder she sobbed her apologies.

"There's nothing to apologize for, Della. You did nothing wrong. Paul got a good look at the guy, and-"

"How did he know, Perry?" she sniffled. "Why did he come up there? I... I didn't even ask him."

"He heard someone going up the fire escape and got concerned." He placed his hands on her shoulders and sat her back up, before continuing. "For you and for himself," he chuckled.

"He kept telling me you'd have his head on a platter-"

"And that's about the fifteenth time I've heard that phrase tonight. Am I really so threatening?"

"Just ask anyone you've ever forced into a confession, counselor," she replied, managing a slight smile.

"Now that's what I've been waiting for," he said, placing his hand gently on her cheek. "That beautiful smile."

"I must look like an absolute train wreck."

He raised his other hand to her face, taking caution not to place it over the "battle injury," with his adorably mischievous grin plastered on his face, all the while. "That, Miss Street, is an utter impossibility."

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers as he continued, "Especially when I haven't seen you in a week."


	4. A Beautiful Mess

Her arm stretched out from beneath the blanket, and she let it drape over the side of the bed as she fought against the fatigue that was luring her back to sleep. Her eyelids felt terribly heavy, and she could only picture how puffy they would be from crying the night before. Add that to the black eye, and-

"Frightful," she grumbled, tugging the blanket up over her head. She heard what sounded like paper rustling, and lifted the blanket just enough to peek out at her night stand. Her name was written on a piece of paper, folded in half to stand. She reached to grab it, pulling it back under the blanket with her.

"Della," written again inside, as if there might be someone idly passing by, mistaking it for their own note on her nightstand. "When the phone rang and you didn't so much as move, I knew you were exhausted. When I made coffee, and you didn't float into the kitchen on the mere aroma, I checked to see if you were breathing."

She rolled her eyes and said a quiet thank you.

"Paul doesn't have much yet to go on, but I'll call you if anything arises. Until then, get some rest. I've got it on good account that people use weekends for things that do not involve work. Write anything interesting down- we might try it together sometime."

A blush crept up her cheeks at the last line, knowing it meant a little more than just the face value.

She rolled from her side to her back, contemplating if she could handle just lying in bed all day. She glanced around the room, from the dresser to the closet to the window, weighing her options. There were so many things at the office that she could get ahead on, but for the first time in recent memory, she almost relished the idea of relaxing.

She sat up, grinning, as she lightly brushed her fingers over her eye. A blow to the head, indeed.

She swung her legs off the bed, letting her feet hit the floor with a small thud. Her whole body ached, it seemed, but she made herself move. She'd hate herself for weeks, for all the things she could have done today, if she didn't do anything.

Her whole head throbbed, when she stood up. For a moment, she thought she might just fall right back into bed again, even moreso when the phone rang. Everything seemed so loud- it was like a bad hangover without the fun that usually preceded.

She stumbled to the phone, hoping to get it and orient herself before the person on the other end hung up.

"Hello?" she mumbled into the receiver, cradled in one hand while she held her head up with the other. There was a long silence, until she finally asked, "Anybody there?"

"You sure got lucky last night."

"I'm sorry?" she stammered, hoping against hope that someone was just playing a trick on her, that this voice wasn't the same one she'd heard in her ear the night before.

"Don't be sorry, lady. You couldn't keep that gun from jamming."

"How did you get this number?"

"Your pal! She's always been real good at storing information. Writes everything down, you know?"

Panic set in, wondering if he had her address, if he was just waiting around the corner for her, for the perfect moment.

"I gave you what you wanted, now please-"

"You gave me some letters, sure. But what's that when you made a liar out of me? I said I'd kill-"

She couldn't stand any more, and slammed the phone down. Her head pounded along with each racing heartbeat, but she knew she couldn't let it slow her down. She ran to the closet for a long coat, and threw it over her pajamas as she hurriedly stepped into a pair of shoes.

She had no idea where to go, but she couldn't stay in her apartment alone. As she rushed around, looking for her keys, the only place she could think of was Perry's apartment. Only she and Paul had that number, aside from the answering service. There would have been no reason for Rita to have had it, to have written it down... she might have Della's own address, but not Perry's.

At least, that's what she was praying for.


	5. Hide And Seek

Perry's apartment was becoming stifling hot, the more she paced the floor, waiting for someone to call. She'd shut and locked every window when she arrived, for fear that someone was following her, and even toyed with the idea of trying to move a heavy chair in front of the door. Both her frantic mental state and her utter exhaustion from all of it prevented her, though. She'd called the answering service, and over an hour later, they'd still had no luck finding Perry or Paul. What truly made her sick was the feeling that, whoever that man was, he may have gotten to them. She knew she shouldn't underestimate each one's ability to defend himself, but her fear laid in the fact that the man was ruthless, seemed to know no bounds. If he was so fired up about threatening her, he had to be all the more angry about Paul stepping in before he could "make good on his word" to kill her.

The smoke from cigarette after cigarette lingered in the air, making her head ache even more than it had. She couldn't remember a time where she'd been so worried, been so affected that the worry manifested itself physically. Her desperation for answers led her mind to one possibility after another, of who she could go to for help. Merely calling the police might end up with Perry as a laughing stock, if they came to talk to her, in his apartment, looking as she did. The only people she truly trusted were the ones who were missing, and it left her with one last option. They were often at odds, but he was always kind to her. Missing persons wasn't his racket, but she knew she could explain all this mess to him, and he'd probably express the same concern. He and Perry butted heads, but there was a mutual respect they had that simply amazed her.

She made herself sit down, made herself breathe and try to be patient. She'd left messages, done her part, and had to resign herself to waiting. Just as she reached for another cigarette, a knock on the door sent her to her feet. She waited silently, barely able to move, when the visitor finally spoke.

"Della, are you in there?"

A great weight was lifted from her, upon hearing his voice. She'd have to file this moment away in her mind, never to tell a soul, to escape any and all forms of ridicule for years to come. Someone she often dreaded, finally a comfort.

"Coming," she said, nervously approaching the door. How she hoped she was doing the right thing.

"This had better be good," he remarked, almost lightheartedly, before taking in her appearance. She could tell, with each miniscule drop of his smile, that the seriousness of the situation was slowly sinking in.

"I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday, Lieutenant, but-"

"You know how it goes in this business, Della. Never a dull moment. May I?" he asked, motioning to enter the apartment.

"Oh... of course," she replied, shaking her head. She watched as he surveyed the room, wondering if he made a conscious effort to show so little reaction on his face. In a way, she wanted him to start the conversation, unable to find a place to begin, herself. But all this had to seem terribly out of the ordinary to him, too.

"I'm sorry," she said again, still fumbling over her words.

"No need for that. Now... what is this? I'm waiting for someone to pop out of a room and announce that it's my birthday. You're a few months off, if that's the plan," he laughed, smiling in the silence between them, as if to bring something out of her.

"No, nothing like that... I just don't know where to begin, Lieutenant."

"You might start with that," he said, pointing at his own eye as he took a seat on the sofa.

"I... do you remember Rita Bradford?"

"Name sounds familiar. A client of Perry's?"

"No, but she was the first wife of-"

"Hold on- She's the woman who claimed to have no memory of the past few years, isn't she? Perry represented the new wife for her husband's murder."

"Right. Well... you see, she and Paul..."

"Della, I'm a homicide investigator. If this is some lovers' quarrel I'm being dragged into, you'll be receiving a full bill from the city of Los Angeles for my time."

"No, please just... give me a minute. She's gone missing again, and when I went to her apartment last night, a man came in and threatened me. He called me at home today, too, saying he'd kill me because I'd gotten in his way. I can't find Perry or Paul, and I'm so afraid that something's happened."

He rubbed his hands together, resting his elbows on his legs as he leaned forward. "The missing persons department could have handled this just fine."

"You know how this would have looked. You... As much as we disagree, Lieutenant, you were the only person I knew I could trust to... tell me what to do next. My mind is so cluttered that," she paused, laughing bitterly at herself, "I have no idea. I can't fix this. I can't find anyone, and there's a mad man who has threatened to kill anyone who gets in his way of... God knows what, but it has to do with Rita, and her disappearance. I can't find anyone. I'm alone, and someone wants me dead. Now you tell me Lieutenant, if you were in the same situation, would you call a stranger, a voice on the other end who may or may not take you seriously, or would you call someone you knew would at least give you the time of day? "

"But without anything to go on, what can I do but wait? I can get patrol stepped up in this area, but-"

"Wait-" she interrupted, "I haven't even looked at it, but-" she reached into her purse on the end table for the card she'd kept the night before. "Here- there's an address written on the back, and this was in the stack of letters the man took from me last night-"

He shook his head as he grabbed the card, eying it carefully. "Handwriting doesn't look familiar."

"I swear, this is not a trick of any kind. Just please, send someone there and see if you find anything. Maybe he's there- couldn't you just check?"

"Della, you, of all people, should know how irregular this is."

"And I can't say again that I do realize it. Please," she begged, "I'll do anything."

The phone's ring made her jump, and a surge of excitement ran through her as she reached for it. "Perry?!"

"Well, well, well, I never would have guessed it."

"How-" she glanced at Tragg, frightened out of her wits, "how did you get this number?"

"Same way I get all my information. Didn't think I'd get to talk to you again, so soon. Might have made me a little angry if I paid you a visit, and you gave me the brush. But now I know where to go, huh?"

"I don't know what you think you're going to accomplish with these threats, but-"

Before she could resist, Tragg had ripped the phone from her hand, taking over the conversation, "Who is this?!" he demanded, angrily. "Lieutenant Arthur Tragg, LAPD. Oh, is that so? Hello?!"

He slammed the phone down, then picked it up again, quickly, "Give me the police department," he instructed.

She stood back, watching in marvel as he barked orders, over the phone. One man to the apartment to stay with her, two to join him at the address on the card. For such previous resistance, he sure knew how to take charge once the situation reached out and pulled him right in. Once he hung the phone up again, she followed on his heels as he headed for the door.

"You can't leave me here!"

"I'll be right downstairs, waiting for a man that'll stay here with you."

"What did he say?"

"You don't want to know, Della."

She wasn't sure if her heart was still beating, when she fired away her next question, "It's Perry, isn't it?"

"No... not yet, anyway. But if he calls, you tell him he'd better duck and cover until this guy's behind bars."

Before he turned to go, he looked her straight in the eyes, pointing his finger at her as he lectured, "Now, maybe you'll understand why you should call the police instead of playing detective."


	6. Settle For What You Get

(Note: As I'm sure you've figured out, by now, things written in italics are memories. Feel free to read into them, for the general idea behind them will, most likely, come up again.)

--

_Pouring two cups of coffee, she listened carefully to the tune Perry seemed to be tapping out with his pencil, against the desk. At least, it began to sound like a familiar song, after she'd noticed that it wasn't a steady beat._

_She sat the cups down before taking her seat again, to pour over the same three pages she'd gone over for what seemed like hours, looking for something to jump out at her. They'd both read through the documents at least a dozen times, trying to figure out if any of it would lead to answers in the case of a recently deceased client._

"_Still nothing," he said, reaching for his coffee. "How about you?"_

_She shook her head, attempting to concentrate on the numbers before her. "Nothing. I still can't figure out how he kept all of this time he spent at the tracks such a secret. And why he wrote down and kept all the bets he'd made."_

"_I was hoping that your time away might have cleared your head," he said, with a smile._

"_Forty six seconds to the coffee pot and back will never be enough time to let my mind go blank. I just notice more things- like you tapping your pencil."_

"_My apologies."_

"_It sounded like a song I used to have my grandmother play for me all the time. She and my aunt were the more revolutionary women of my family, and I loved getting to stay with them. Grandfather died long before I was born, and for a long time, Aunt Mae stayed and took care of Grandma. It always seemed like my brother was the one who got the attention in the house, he got to be the one who made big plans for the future... but when I went to stay with Grandma, I got to make plans, too. I was," she giggled, "I was going to be a dancer, and the three of us were going to live in a great big house, and I'd take care of them. Grandma played the piano beautifully, and she'd play while I practiced. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing, so it was a little more like organized spinning and jumping, but I'd have her play Clair de Lune, and-"_

"_That was it," he grinned. "It's the only piece of music that I've ever heard that could, in a way, free my mind. I've just now realized that playing it on the pencil doesn't have quite the same effect."_

"_Of course it doesn't," she smiled. "Because you're still thinking and reading and processing while you're hearing it. Doing too much of that will associate it with something else, and it'll never work again."_

"_I suppose you're right," he sighed, leaning back in his chair._

_She watched him, for a moment, as he closed his eyes, resting his hands behind his head. She wondered if he was playing the song out in his head, taking a small break, in hopes that he'd hit on something. She wanted to laugh to herself- he'd try anything to get the job done._

_She put her focus back on the forms, knowing that this was supposed to mean something. Each one had the same names on them, but they weren't any races to be found that had these horses running together. Sure, they'd located quite a few of the horses, or rather, the owners of the long dead horses, but none of them had a clue who their client was. It seemed he'd just come across those name and liked them. Or maybe he'd made up races in his head, his own way to clear his mind._

_She sat one to the side, and glanced up at Perry, still content with his eyes closed and a smile crossing his lips. He was probably piecing it all together, and would hold it all from her until she came to the same conclusion without him. She grabbed his pencil, wanting to toss it at him to jar him back to reality, when she saw what he'd been pouring over for so long- all the background information she'd compiled on the man's heirs. She took a moment to examine the names, then went back to the forms- she'd finally gotten something, she thought._

"_Perry!"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_Look at this!"_

_She sat the last racing form next to the list of his heirs, waiting for him to see what she'd seen. He glanced back and forth between them, then gave her a puzzled look._

"_Did they do a trick while my eyes were closed?"_

"_Oh Perry, you have to see it! Each of the names- Stephanie Nicole, Gregory Theodore, and on and on... all of them have the same initials as the horses!"_

_He took the papers in his hands, reading each name aloud and matching it with the horse's names. When he reached the last, he shook his head and grabbed another sheet from her, giving her an awful glare._

"_What was that for?"_

"_You planned this," he said, very seriously._

"_Planned what?"_

"_You had it just about figured out, then you got me sidetracked so you could... could take home the prize."_

"_I did no such thing!" she protested. "And how did I sidetrack you? It was your choice to take a nap, or whatever it was you were doing. How was I to know that you'd do the most... the one thing that is the most unlike you?" she fumed, trying to make her anger very clear._

_He looked up at her, simply staring at her for a few moments, until he cracked a smile that sent her over the edge of being absolutely furious._

"_I wish you could see your face," he laughed. "I was only teasing you!"_

"_I didn't find it very funny."_

"_You've made that quite evident, Miss Street. But honestly, this is excellent work. The first real lead we've come across. It's as if he was keeping a tally sheet of who would receive the most upon his death. Strange, for a man who had no intention of making a will until he was on his death bed, as he always told me."_

"_But, if you or I could barely figure it out, who else would?"_

"_How it was found isn't the point. It's the fact that it must have been. If you add up what we thought were bets, or losses even, I'll bet it'd come up to just about the sum left in his accounts, upon his death."_

_She quickly added everything together and grabbed his last bank statement, revealing a match almost to the dollar. "Do you think the person thought he had a will, with this clearly stated?"_

"_It's possible," he replied, getting up from his desk. "But what's more, it means that we've got people to see."_

_She went quickly to the outer office to pick up her purse while he turned the lights out. He'd gotten their coats, and stood holding hers to help her into it. She couldn't help but be just the tiniest bit excited, as they'd done nothing but sit in that office for a solid week now._

"_I should be mad at you, though," he grinned, as she button her jacket._

"_Whatever for?"_

"_Because from now on, when I hear Clair de Lune, I'll only be distracted by thoughts of you."_

"_Well," she said, trying to turn away from him to hide her blushing face, "let's hope you don't hear it often."_

"_On the contrary, Miss Street. I could hear it every day."_

She forced herself to shut the lid on the record player she'd been absently staring at. She'd paced around the apartment so much, she thought she'd wear a hole in the carpet, until the record caught her eye. She wondered if he still remembered it, as she did, or if he'd simply been trying to clear his mind before he left for the conference.

She leaned on her hands, against the cabinet, and shook her head. Another hour had passed with no word, and everything she looked at made her mind wander. She wished she could fall asleep until it was all over, but knew it was an impossibility. If she could only shut everything out, she could stand the wait.

"It sounds better than tapping it out with a pencil."

Every muscle in her body seemed to tighten, and she squinted her eyes closed. Had she imagined it, or was he really there? Slowly, she opened her eyes and saw his reflection in the picture frame, in front of her. He'd only managed a few steps toward her before she ran to him, throwing her arms around him, tightly.

"I came as soon as I got your message," he whispered, running his hand up and down her back. "I shouldn't have left you alone like that."

"He called here, too, Perry. I don't know how he's getting all this information, but... but I had to call the police."

"That answers my next question about the man at the elevator."

"Perry... I was so worried that he'd killed you. It's been hours, and the service had no idea where you'd gone. It's just not like you."

"I understand, Della. And it'd be a lie if I said I didn't nearly break the sound barrier getting here," he smiled.

"Did you and Paul find anything?" she inquired.

"A few people who had seen her with a man who matches the description, but so far, no definite leads."

"Well..." she began, nervously, knowing she had to get it out sometime, "Lieutenant Tragg may be close to finding both of them."

He took off his coat and hung it in the closet before giving her a look of disbelief. "What's he got to do with a missing persons case?"

"Well, Perry, I didn't know who else to call. I waited for an eternity for you to call me back, and when that didn't happen... I called him," she explained, as defiantly as her shaking voice would allow. "He wasn't going to do anything, then the call came while he was here-"

"From our mystery man?"

"Y-yes. Tragg took the phone from me, and I guess he made some threats, so... I had a card that I'd forgotten about in my purse-"

"Wait- what card?"

"I put it in my purse when I was at Rita's apartment last night. I'd honestly forgotten all about it until he was here-"

"Della, we've searched high and low for anything, and-"

"I know, and I'm sorry! I gave the card to him, and he called some officers to meet him at the address."

"Do you remember what it was?" he asked, going to the phone.

"I think so... who are you calling?"

"Paul, so we-" he said, before being cut off by the ringing phone.

She tried to give him a warning before he picked it up, but as soon as she reached out, he answered.

"Hello, Lieutenant," he said, sending an air of relief over her. "Yes-" he glanced at her, "that she is." He kept his eyes fixed on her as he listened to Tragg, nodding as if the man could see him. "Alright, I'll be down as soon as I can."

"Well?" she asked as he placed the phone back in the cradle.

"He says you're a very handy girl to have around. Led him right to the spot, and right into an open and shut case."

"Meaning what?"

"Della, the address you had was where the man- rather, Robert Knowles, had been keeping Rita. When Tragg got there, he walked right into Rita running away from the scene of Mr. Knowles' murder."

He went back to the closet to retrieve his coat, and turned to her just before he reached the front door. "Go home and change, and meet me at the office in an hour. Call Paul, and tell him to meet me at the station."

She nodded, watching him leave, just like that. Just as if this was the routine.

Then again, wasn't it?


End file.
